Corporeal Estate
by Vir M
Summary: Dante's office was in ruins after DMC3, so he had to find somewhere new to set up a makeshift shop. The place he found was perfect: cheap, in a good location and... built over a burned down psyche ward. Ghosts, Dante finds, make good receptionists.
1. Chapter 1: Real Estate

Corporeal Estate

_A(nother) Fan Fiction by Vir M._

Chapter 01:

**"Real Estate"**

* * *

The house—it was more of an office, really—stood a ten-minute walk from my old digs, but was still in the red light district. It used to be a small psychologists office or something, and the building looked it; two stories high, red brick walls, barred windows, peeling paint, the works. Standard red-light décor, though no one had honored the exterior with the customary graffiti (yet). Floor number one was a lobby, complete with ugly coffee tables, old couches, and a large receptionist's desk; floor number two had been converted into living space. It was nice (for such a low price, anyway); all it needed was a fresh coat of paint and some new furniture. The plumbing worked (I turned on the shower and flushed one of the two toilets to make sure) and the foundation looked solid. Plus, it had a waiting room. I hate having customers in my face all the time. This was a good opportunity for seclusion.

The woman who showed me around the place was a twenty-something brunette with a severely cut pageboy. She was pretty-- in a pinched, office-worker kind of way-- but her suit, stark gray and immaculately pressed, hid what scant curvature she had, almost as if she were embarrassed to possess it. Not my type, I decided fairly quickly. A total square. Even her name was square—'Mathilda Morrison,' her card read. I wondered vaguely where Enzo had met her. He had, after all, been the one to call her up.

"This place used to be run by a psychiatric firm," Morrison said as she unlocked the front door. She was all business. "It was built about fifteen years ago, after the previous building burned down. The new building was built on top of the old basement, though it's been sealed off for structural reasons." As we stepped inside, she gestured at the waiting room. "When the firm moved out, we remodeled the second floor—it now has three bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen. Two baths, total; one upstairs and one down. Aside from the addition of the bathroom, we kept the ground floor completely untouched, as you can see, so you can do what you'd like with it. Have a look around."

After touring the upstairs (unfurnished) and making another circuit of the downstairs (badly furnished) I decided that I liked it. There was a perfect place for my pool table on the far side of the lobby, and another room upstairs were I could keep all my guns. And the bedroom I had my eye on was _huge _(compared to my current one, at least). "Can I get the lease?" I asked.

She set her briefcase down on the reception desk. Opened it. "I'm afraid there isn't one," she said, sorting papers.

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"It's a buy only. No renting."

I frowned. "But I'm only staying here until my place gets fixed. I can't buy it."

"It's cheap," she said, holding out a piece of paper.

I took it. Scanned it. Felt my eyes bug out of my head. It was cheap, and though math wasn't my strong suit I could tell that the total price was the equivalent of what five months in any other place would be. And, since getting construction done in this part of town was a huge feat in and of itself, I knew that my renting would be a lot longer than that. It was perfect.

"I'll take it," I said. Ms. Morrison smiled.

"I had a feeling you would," she said, and handed me a pen.

I signed, made the necessary monetary transaction (in cash; Morrison's eyes were huge while I doled it out) and saw my real estate agent out the door. On the way there, something struck me.

"Hey."

"Hm?"

"This place is a find, right?"

"Very much so. Why do you ask?"

"If it's such a find," I said slowly, "then why hasn't it been bought already?"

It was the first time she'd looked anything other than stoic all evening. Her eyes went all shifty, and her fingers clenched around her briefcase. "Bad feng shui," she said, teeth clenched. I didn't really seem like a lie; more like a grudging admittance to something shameful.

So I repeated: "Bad feng shui," in disbelief, and Morrison just shrugged.

"That's real estate for you," she murmured darkly, and walked out.


	2. Chapter 2: Really Weird

Corporeal Estate

By Vir M.

Chapter 02:

"Really Weird"

Fighting my way into my old office was a nightmare, as was finding all of my shit and stuffing it into crates. Of course once it was packed I had to carry it out again, which was also something of a drag. Then I had to load it into Enzo's creaky old VW Bus that I'd borrowed for the occasion. Despite my loathing of the ugly lime green he'd painted it, I have to admit that that thing can hold a lot. Of course, I still had to make about three trips in the tin monstrosity, and the festivities lasted well into the afternoon and early evening, but I digress. By the time I had carted the last of my stuff inside, called Enzo to come get his awful car, and collapsed on my freshly delivered leather couch, I was exhausted. Now I knew why I didn't own much stuff in the first place—moving when you're a pack rat must be an ordeal.

After I rested a bit, I pawed through a few boxes until I found my phone under a pile of heavy firearms. I extracted it with affection. My good old phone. It was just so durable. I set it on the receptionist's desk, hunted for a jack, and plugged the thing in. It didn't take too long for it to start ringing.

"Hello?" I grumbled, poking around in another box. I held the phone tight between my shoulder and cheek.

"It's me," said Enzo. "How's the new place?"

"Good," I mumbled, checking the clip in an old Beretta. Loaded. I aimed at a fictional enemy, pulled the trigger in my mind, and saw that enemy disappear into smoke. Bang. I set it on the desk and picked up a Mossberg. "Roomy."

"Great price, huh," he said. It was not a question.

"Yeah, I was wondering about that," I said, setting down that weapon in favor of another. "Why was it so cheap, anyway? Murderer live here?"

I could plainly hear Enzo clear his throat. "I hope not."

"Pussy."

"What?! So I don't wanna live in a house with the insane ghost of a psychopath—that makes me a pussy?"

"Bye, Enzo. Don't forget to pass my new number on to my clients, okay?" I said, and hung up. I was grinning. It always pissed him off when I did that, just gave him orders and hung up. Oh well. I paid him; he couldn't complain.

Still. It nagged at me. Why the hell would a place like this—roomy, good quality, cheap, equipped—sell for so damn_ little_? Sure it was in a bad part of town, but the price—it was kind of suspicious.

Not that that little inkling of unease had stopped me from signing the contract.

I brushed the thoughts aside. No use worrying about it now. I set down the firearm I was handling and walked over to my jukebox. I'd gotten a technician (one of Enzo's buddies who knew his stuff and did it for cheap) to fix it; it ran as right as rain. With a grunt I shoved it over the tile floor and into the back corner, next to the stairwell. My pool table went next to the box and to the right of the receptionist's desk, which was in the exact center of the room. I'd put most of the ugly furniture out on the curb to make room for my table and couch. I didn't have a bed yet (I'd been roughing it on my couch for a while now) so would be sleeping downstairs. The couch went on the opposite side of the room as the box and table, and all in all the waiting room looked pretty much like my old place, sans demon heads and swords. Those would have to come later. I felt a pang of homesickness. This place was pretty impersonal.

With a flash I knew just what would fix that little problem. I rummaged through a box until I found it—the rolled up poster of the hot chick I'd been hanging on the back of my bathroom door. Caty Corona, I think her name was. Yowza. I put her above the jukebox.

I looked at her for a minute and found that she was a great incentive for unpacking the rest of my stuff. So I got to it. I liberated all my swords, shoved them into the walls, mounted the more rare and/or delicate ones on display stands, put out all the guns in their display cases, set up my pool equipment and otherwise home-ied the place up. Ammo went into a large cabinet, as did a few first-aid kits and other stuff like that. Folders containing information, leads, crime reports, porn; the usual. Ebony and Ivory went into the reception desk's drawers, and Rebellion leaned against the back. Perfect. Within reach, but hidden. Nice.

I decided I was hungry at that point, and ordered a pizza. Had to give them my new address; they knew my voice and would have sent it to the wrong place, I'm sure. The snot-nosed teen who delivered it was the same as always, which was comforting. I tipped him and he left.

The pizza sure did smell nice. I cracked open the box and made my way over to the desk, inhaling the aroma of dough, tomatoes, and cheese. My mouth watered. "Come to papa," I said, putting the box on the desk as I sat down and swung my feet onto the counter top. Seconds later I dug in, happy at last.

That's when I noticed just how quiet it was.

People who live in the city are experts at tuning things out. Car alarms and the rush of traffic mean little to city-slickers, who can sleep through ten-car pileups like the screech of metal was nothing more than a violin in an orchestra playing Brahms. What city people don't realize is that the sounds of the city make a soundtrack that underscores every aspects of their lives. It's why some people have problems sleeping when they visit the countryside—with their unwitting lullaby gone and replaced by utter quiet, they have nothing to 'soothe' them into slumber.

However, I'm not like most people, city slickers or not. In my line of work, tuning out noise is tantamount to falling asleep in the lion's den. Sound plays a vital role in telling me where my enemies are and how they will attack, and even in the city—a place where even alarming sounds can turn into white noise, one mere thread in a tapestry of sound—I remain attentive to every noise that comes to me, both in my office and out.

But my office was silent.

I put down the pizza slice I had been working on and strolled to the window. Peered outside. A car passed by with a rattle of bad transmission, but it was faint. Muted, almost.

I leaned away from the window and shivered despite myself. "This is weird," I murmured. "Really weird." I returned to my desk and noticed that even my footfalls sounded hollow. "And getting weirder. Great. Just great."

My pizza, when I picked it up again, was ice cold.

* * *

AUTHOR TIME

Short chapter to get me out of a funk. This story has been really dormant for a really long time, so… I jumpstarted it. Hope you liked it! Another chapter is in the works.

DEVIL MAY CRY © CAPCOM

CORPOREAL ESTATE © VIR M.


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